What's in a Man

As a newly inducted member of the Perth Single Scene, I've had a fair deal of time on my hands to do some thinking. You know, about who I really am as a 'single' after all those years as a pair, about who I am as a woman (I'm not the high school girl I remember and that's probably a good thing) and about what I really want in and for my life. My life as I knew it has certainly changed and, although it's tinged with a touch of sadness, I'm enjoying all the new and exciting possibilities of having more space to just be me.

Although I'm not looking to fill my 'man vacancy' any time soon, the other day i got to thinking about what I would look for or want in a man, or what my potential criteria might be in any case. I thought about what I had learnt from my previous relationship about compatibility and common ground, and I thought about what I would and wouldn't be willing to compromise the next time. Strangely enough all I could come up with was a list of things he must like in the culinary department! That's right, never mind about his endearing qualities, what he does for a living or where he sees himself in five years, I just want to know that we're 'cuisine-compatible'. I can hear you laughing, my girlfriends did the same when I told them. But in all seriousness, I've come to believe that commonalities in culinary preference are quite important in a relationship - after all, food is what brings people together. Or maybe it's just that me and food are such great friends, I wouldn't want anyone to come between us. What can I say - I love to cook (maybe that's the little Greek in me coming out to wave her magical wooden spoon wand) and I hate being limited in my cooking repertoire.

So here's what I came up with:

• Must like seafood (fish & prawns are essentials - it would be better if you also liked mussels and oysters but if you've got the first two, I can compromise on the others).
• Must like Japanese cuisine (those who know me well, know how much I love Japanese food).
• No vegetarians - I appreciate the good deed your doing for society at large, but if you don't eat any meat at all it's a deal breaker (I come with a little Greek in me and you'll need to keep him happy with a lamb roast once in a while).
• However, that said, meat and potatoes every night does not a meal make. Must appreciate the option of a non-meat meal and not be afraid to put a little salad on the side of that steak dinner. (My vegetarian lasagne is absolutely bloody awesome!)
• Must not be afraid of a little spice (chilli is your friend, remember that).
• Must like some fruits (you don't have to eat an apple a day but fruit and dessert are synonymous - and baby, I love dessert).

So those are the must-haves! I don't think that's really too much to ask, do you? ;)
Coupled with that are a few other small things I thought of (once I managed to pull my hungry little brain away from my stomach).

• Must be gay friendly (I'm not asking him to get down and boogie in a gay bar, but appreciation for everyone's choices without criticism is basic human courtesy).
• Can't be addicted to computer games (nothing wrong with a little x-box here and there but everyday is not an option and neither is all day Saturday).
• You car is not more important than your girlfriend (nothing wrong with car appreciation but if you'd turn me down to watch the V8 Supercars you fail).
• You must be able to remember my birthday (and not just because it's the same date as one of your mate's) as well as those of your family - I'm not a weekly reminder system, that's what the calender in your phone is for.
• Taking me out for dinner is not just for special occasions, sometimes you should just do something nice because it's a nice thing to do (and trust me - it'll score you some brownie points).
• And if you don't like Fremantle, I don't like you.

So there you have it, a no-fuss, no-nonsense, straight forward list for a man. Summed up and in no uncertain terms, basically the way to my heart is through my stomach!

Toxic friends

It's come to my attention that every woman seems to have one 'toxic friend'. You know the one; she's the 'friend' who always tells you your bum does, in fact, look big in those jeans, even if you haven't asked. She's the one who always criticises your opinions, lifestyle choices and decisions and as such you make every excuse under the sun not to have to see her on a Saturday night. The one who you breathe a sigh of relief over when she leaves & bitch to your family and friends about pretty much every word she said while she was there. She's the one who can never be happy for you or anything good that happens in your life. That's right it's all about her, Her, HER, and you just about can't stand the sight of her, let alone her voice!

.... And yet, you seemingly refuse to de-friend 'The Toxic One', regardless of the big yellow 'POISON' sticker flashing on her forehead and the steaming green-tinged cartoon fumes pluming from her ears. The fact is that every time you're within 100 metres of her you feel your fingers start to tingle in a desperate attempt to reach for a protective plastic jumpsuit, full face mask and all, to avert the danger of her oozing radioactive filth and turning everything to shit!

I've got to say, I'm fairly blessed with my group of girlfriends. Somehow I seem to have managed to escape the fumes of the toxic women I've misguidedly befriended throughout the years, which has left me with a quaint but quality group of girls. However, I know among the lives of my family and friends these hideous women seem to be lurking, and not so much in their shadows. It wasn't until my Mum changed states that she managed to detach herself from one such woman, granted that wasn't her initial reason for moving but it was certainly an added bonus! So why do women continue to do this to themselves? What purpose do these toxic friends actually serve and why would you continue to be 'friends' with someone who consistently shits all over your every parade and makes you feel like a lost, inferior little girl?

Is it because you get yourself in too deep with the friendship and all of a sudden your husbands or partners are friends and you alternate years for who's house Boxing Day is at and there's just no easy way out?
Is it because women get to a certain age in their lives and the inevitable confrontation is just too hard?
Or is it because Nelly-no-friends figures shit friends are better than none?

Maybe it's just because every Superwoman must have her Kryptonite. Does every woman secretly have a part of her that needs someone to make her feel shit. Are we all just tall poppies in need of a dirty great big pair of scissors to come along and cut us up and leave us crippled on the cold, hard, barren, dusty earth? Or is it because women are just so damn self-sabotaging? As a species I really do find us to be the sadists of the world, intent on hurting ourselves and making our own lives shit. Nobody is forcing us to befriend toxic people, we gulp hungrily from their cans of poisonous scum all of our own accord. Are women really that bored and deranged that they remain friends with these hideous people simply so they have something to bitch about? Or are they just so determined to seek the approval of someone it seems so impossible to please?

If more women actually took the time to enjoy their own company, rather than seeking the gratification or company of others, if they stopped trying to fill the 'void' with toxic people and found joy in their own self-appreciation through focusing on the people who really do care about them then, in my humble opinion, the world would be a much less sadistic place, if not a better one.

Australia says no to domestic violence and Little Bird says no to shitty friends! That's one small step for me - one giant leap for all womankind!

*Snippets*

Strawberry Suprise

I must say the prospect of having fundraiser chocolates at work always causes a stir amongst my work colleages - and myself really. When my mental functioning starts to deteriorate somewhere between lunch and home-time, I'm a sucker chocolate fix. Although, I remember my philosophy lecturer from uni giving us advice on brain food to eat before our exam. I distinctly remember him saying 'eat brown rice and salmon... under no circumstances should you eat chocolate'. This ofcourse is because chocolate provides you with energy for all of about 30 minutes before slamming you back into your lethargic reality. However, if the choice at 3:30 in the afternoon is chocolate or brown rice and salmon, I'm probably gonna pick the chocolate (I hate brown rice lol).

This particular afternoon, the 12 boxes of fundraiser chocolates arrive. Rochelle and I spend some time sorting them all out so there is a mixed variety in each box and within about 30 minutes, little Scotty (aka Sir Eat Alot) wanders over to be the first to sample the wares. I'm rife with anticipation thinking about what he'll choose; 'Will it be the Boost bar? A Crunchie? No, maybe he's a Cherry Ripe fan?' I think to myself. It's an unspoken rule that everyone leaves the Freddos and Caramellos till last in mixed boxes of fundraiser chocolates - I mean, there's just so much more to choose from.

So when Sir Eat Alot comes wandering back flashing the red wrapper of a Strawberry Twin Freddo at me you can imagine my reaction.

'Scott, are you serious? Who over the age of seven willingly chooses a Straberry Freddo?' I say.

'Strawberry and lemonade,' he retorts correcting me.

May I remind you that this is a 27-year-old guy we're talking about, not a 7-year-old girl. Okay so he's slight, but no he's by no means gay and with all of the other choices in the box he goes for a Strawberry and lemonade Freddo! I question his manhood and about now he goes as red as the Strawberry wrapper as we have a bit of a giggle.

So it will be of no suprise to you, his new office nickname is Strawberry Shortcake!

Creative

Packed bags

'I think I might pack some things,' he said.

Usually she'd be excited to see packed bags. Packed bags meant holidays and seeing family. Discovering, exploring and new cultural experiences with the hope of gifts from a loved one. Packed bags meant moving house. New adventures and new beginnings. A new town or suburb to explore, new neighbours to meet, a new house to decorate. But this time, packed bags meant the possibility of the end of an era and of a relationship. Packed bags meant cold nights in an empty bed and meals for one. Loneliness and longing. A world of security and comfort lost. She wasn't so excited about these packed bags at all.

'I'm going to go into the lounge room and watch TV,' she said, 'and you're going to go into the bedroom and close the door.'

'Why?' he asked.

Because she couldn't watch him remove the clothes she'd folded for him and placed in his drawers and take his toothbrush and shaving gel she'd arranged for him in the bathroom and put them in the packed bag to loneliness. She couldn't watch him prepare to leave her.

Not long after, he emerged from the bedroom, packed bag in hand. She looked up at him from her spot rugged up on the couch, the light from the TV illuminating her face, eyes glistening with impatient tears.

'I'm gonna go,' he said.

'There's some leftovers in the fridge if you want to take them with you for lunch tomorrow,' she replied, forcing down the lump constricting her throat.

'You're so sweet,' he said, reaching down to stroke her cheek.

It felt strange, as if there were more love and respect between them now than ever before, in the moments before the end.

Creative

When the rain comes








I love it when the rain comes.

When the rain comes so do the blackouts. Grown-ups turn into giddy little school children and watch the rain fall outside office buildings.
When the rain comes so does candlelight. Soft flickering in silent powerless rooms. Sensual shadows cast on walls.
Cuddles are in plenty when the rain comes.

When the rain comes so does the wind. Blowing branches tap on windows. Destruction in its mighty force.
When the rain comes the sky illuminates with lightening flashes; currents reaching out to touch the earth.
Children cry at cracks of thunder when the rain comes.

When the rain comes so do memories of warmth. Up north as a little girl, hot rain falls, quelling the humidity. Dancing in the street and swimming on the road.
When the rain comes farmers rejoice. Dry earth is replenished. Fields rejuvenated with new growth.
Home-cooked hearty meals stew on the stove when the rain comes.

I love it when the rain comes.

*Snippets*

Out of the frying pan

My office car park comes off a laneway backing onto people's garages, you know the type - where, from the street it looks like no one who lives there owns a car - aha but they do, hidden in a secret laneway behind the houses. Yes well, all secrets aside, this particular laneway is the access to our car park and this morning whilst turning slowly into said laneway, attempting to drive as slow as possible to stick to the 8 km/h speed limit (I swear 8 km/h is drivably impossible!) a little old Japanese lady wanders out of her garage looking in the opposite direction, completely unaware of the crunching of gravel under my tires, and that even at 10 km/h a little green Getz is about to hit her. However, as if a little old Japanese lady with a car park death wish wasn't strange enough for my morning, she was carrying with her, of all things, a frying pan into our staff car park. Realising she's not going to stop on her mission to cross the road, I slam on my breaks and she finally turns and sees me. Less than a foot away from my car, she gives me the sweetest 'oops' smile I've ever seen, to which I start miming my apology to her through the windscreen (because of course I was in the wrong - why do we always do that, apologise even when it's not our fault - politeness?). She signals for me to go past and I wave as I continue my endeavour to find a car space, free to go on living my life knowing tomorrow's headlines won't read 'heartless bitch runs down innocent Japanese frypan-carrying woman in car park'. But I'm still intrigued by the frying pan. So I watch her in my rear-view mirror as she continues across the laneway and into the car park, finds a small patch of dirt and fallen leaves next to a brick dividing wall and proceeds to tip out the remnants of this morning's tasty Japanese breakfast onto the patch. She then nonchalantly wanders on back to her pretty house off the laneway, free to live her life making many a tasty breakfast and wandering through car parks with kitchen items. I can't believe I've worked there for 3 years and was never aware our parking lot doubled as a pig trough. Might have to start bringing in my frying pans!

Gripe Vine

Blame your son - I'm just the girlfriend!

I generally make a point of refusing to take responsibility for buying gifts and cards for my boyfriends family, not because I don't like them but because it's not my job. It's bad enough that I am the general household calendar for all events, birthdays and special occasions, it is not my job to faff around trying to find presents and cards for his family when I've already got 7 family members of my own to track down gifts for every year. However, while I'd like to believe that if he doesn't get them a gift or a good enough gift or a card or forgets their special day, then it's not my problem; that the blame will be placed on him as a bad son. But the truth is that, to a mother of boys, it is expected that the girlfriend will ensure her stupid son comes up with something and comes up with something good! If a son makes a present faux pa, such as those mentioned above, it's almost as if his mother is more disappointed in the girlfriend than in him, and although I'm griping about it, I kind of understand why! You see she knows that you remember everyone's birthdays and still you allowed her son to forget/get them a present from the $2 shop/refuse to get a card because he 'doesn't do cards'. Why do we take on these responsibilities? If you didn't teach your son to be thoughtful, that is your own fault as a parent - don't put that on me! And besides, you can always tell when the girlfriend has influenced the present buying decision - don't you want something that your son bought you because he thought of you and thought about the things you liked and put all of that information together to find you a very thoughtful gift?

The other part of this is guys who do it to themselves. I know guys who are perfectly self-sufficient, who always remember birthdays and always buy thoughtful gifts. But it seems that along with the addition of a girlfriend into their lives, a 'don't think for yourself' switch is also installed in their brains and they unload all of that wonderful information onto her, and she's often more than willing to accept (actually sometimes she's the force behind the unloading). All of a sudden they're asking their partners when their mother's birthday is, what they've got planned for the weekend and where they left their shoes! It's like when you go out somewhere together and he asks you to carry his phone, his sunglasses and his wallet in your handbag. Why carry it himself or make unsightly bulges in his pockets, when you have a much bigger and more effective handbag in which you can carry it for him. That makes sense doesn't it, and you're usually more than happy to carry them in your wonderful bag until such time as he needs them back again. Are women just handbags for men's personal information? Hanging on their shoulders everywhere they go just always at the ready for him to dip his hands in and find whatever he needs? Are we a substitute for the male memory? Or are we the martyrs? Are we just control freaks feeding our controlling desires by being the driving force behind every decision he ever makes?

*Snippets*

Look good in leather
Last night my loving boyfriend coaxed me into going with him to look for a new motorbike jacket. Now as thrilling as it might sound, it wasn't my ideal Thursday night plan, however, he was really excited about it and I had noticed his current jacket appeared to be a little tattered; not exactly conducive to a safe riding experience. Walking into the store, I'd never felt so much like 'a skirt' as I looked around at the multitude of Power Ranger-esque outfits, molded with interior protection plates, simulating human body casts hanging from big metal racks. Matt was weak at the knees at the sight of a wall of leather jackets; I was worried I might have to get him a mop and a bucket if he reached out and touched one! I don't think I've seen more leather in a cow paddock than I did in that store and we're not talking rough tough, Harley-mounting-bikie leather, we're talking Speed racer.

Matt fought back his urge and worked his way around the more breathable fabric jackets first. He found a couple around the $250 mark, tried them on and made comments about how they were too small for his 'masculine frame' before finally tiptoeing over to the wall of mounted leather. He was instantly inlove with one particular jacket not unlike that worn by the white Power Ranger. I've got to admit, it was a pretty nice jacket, as far as motorbike jackets go - and for $650 it would want to be, although when you're braving the road on an SV1000 you probably want to be wearing the best of the best (if not for posing then for protection). As he puts it on he 'ooo's about how good it feels. 'So does it look good?' He asks rhetorically. 'Yeah, I suppose, If you like that kind of thing,' I say in jest. 'You wouldn't be able to keep your hands off me if I bought this jacket,' he says big-noting himself (for a change). 'Honey if you bought that jacket, you wouldn't be able to keep your hands off yourself,' I joke. He goes back and forth between the $250 jacket and the $650 'piece de resistance'. Eventually, his rationality gets the better of him; $650 is a lot to spend on a jacket and there is no point paying $250 for a jacket he didn't really want. He carefully, yet reluctantly, put the much coveted jacket back on the rack and slowly did up the zip as if he were preparing his first-born for his first day at school. As we walked out of the shop, I swear I saw a tear in his eye and it was then I knew, he'd be coming home a white Power Ranger before the week was out!

*Snippets*

Book in the dirt
Having recently had kerb-side collection, it's not unusual to see discarded scraps of rubbish still loitering around various front yards, but whilst walking the dog last night I came across something truly humorous; a book - spread out, page down, cover up and half buried in the dirt.

Being the book lover/hoarder that I am, I was quite taken aback by what seemed to be someone's desperate attempt to rid themselves of that particular book. The rational part of my brain tells me that there are several great and dignified options non-book-hoarders could employ in the effort to get rid of an old, unwanted book; one might trade it in at a second-hand book shop, give it to a charity/school book drive or maybe you might donate it to the Salvos in the hope it could enrich the soul of someone less fortunate. Of course if you really must just 'get rid' of a book you could always throw it into your recycle bin where it may be turned into another far more useful book, or last (but definitely not recommended) you could simply just put it into the rubbish bin to become landfill. However, the state of this discarded book, suggested that its owner had deemed it to be so useless it was not even worthy of the bin and had been thrown from the house to the side of the road, maybe alongside an old broken 30cm television and a 'never-been-used' ab-rocker irrationally purchased late one night from Danoz Direct! On rubbish collection day it had been overlooked by the kerb-side collectors, who would have considered it unworthy of their rubbish truck and by the scavengers creeping by with their wheelbarrows the weekend before, looking for treasure in other peoples' trash.

As we got closer I became more and more intrigued as to just what this worthless excuse for a book could possibly be and for a split second I pondered whether maybe it might like to come and live on my bookcase... and then I saw the title: 'How to solve your child's sleeping problems'... enough said!

I'm finally here!

Well it's taken a while for my technologically-challenged self to get a blog started but with the help of some fabulously motivating colleagues, I'm finally here and ready and raring to 'blog for my life'! Yes, I know, I can hear you all saying 'but starting a blog is easy' - and I agree! My laggard approach to starting a blog was more ingrained in SPS 'Severe Procrastination Syndrome' - a dilapidating disease passed down through the generations that inhibits your ability to ever getting anything done. Well not anymore - I'm here now and look at me; I'm blogging!